"There's bad stuff everywhere outside this door," he says, pacing in small circles and exhaling a cloud of smoke.

On parole for theft, Vescio spends most of his time in his room at the Triangle T in Commerce City, panicked that if he leaves, he will run into "dope, guns or gang-bangers" who will suck him back into his previous life. Or he will find himself at the Tap-A-Keg liquor store next door.

His tiny room doesn't have a refrigerator or working oven, and grime and smoke have stained what once were white walls. A blue blanket is tacked over the window. His clothes dangle on hangers that curl over nails on the wall. A loaf of bread and a jar of mixed peanut butter and jelly sit on the kitchen counter.

Post-It notes on the wall next to his bed remind him to take his medications and check in with parole every day to see whether he has a drug test.

"I just forget things. And the more stressed out I get, the more I trip and freak out," he says. He attributes part of his memory problems to the medications he's on for bipolar disorder and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Head injuries from fights and car accidents, he says, have left him with seizures.

It's at least the fifth time he has been on parole. He thinks this time he can make it, but doubts still creep into his mind.

"I didn't use to care. But now I'm trying to do the right thing," he says.

So he stays inside.

When Vescio got off the prison bus in east Denver in July, he was greeted by Warren Holloway of Colorado Community Church. He handed Vescio a backpack filled with a razor, shampoo, lotion, a resource guide and a Bible.

"We won't be with you for the rest of today, but the Lord will be," said Holloway, who comes out to greet new parolees at least twice a month with volunteers.

OUT ON PAROLE. 35-year-old Thomas Vescio, left, and 30-year-old Josh Hayward cross the railroad tracks at the Denver County Jail after being released from the Colorado Department of Corrections. Vescio says he was "state-raised," in and out of foster care, juvenile detention and prison for 26 of his 35 years. (Joe Amon, The Denver Post)

Vescio stripped off his state-issued polo shirt, the dark tattoos on his arms leaping out from his pale skin. In an undershirt with his name and prison number on it, he waited for a public bus so he could check in with parole and then head to a motel that accepts state vouchers.

"Things are going to be different now," he told Holloway, smiling.

Vescio — who has been in prison for theft, forgery, weapons and drug charges over the past 12 years — took the bus to the parole office in Westminster, where he received a two-week motel voucher, an emergency food bag, 10 bus tickets and an ankle monitor that requires him to be in his room from 7 p.m. to 6 a.m. every day.

Since being released on parole in March 2012 for a theft conviction, Vescio has violated his parole twice.

Two days after his latest release, he checked in for an orientation, receiving information on job searches, education, food stamps and where to get clothes. He was told to call parole each morning and report for a drug test when instructed.

Vescio dropped out of school in seventh grade but got his high school diploma while in prison in 2002. He has worked at various jobs including construction and landscaping. He was "state-raised," he said, in and out of foster care and juvenile detention most of his childhood. He doesn't know where his mother and eight brothers and sisters are.

All he'll say about those years is "I was a bad kid."

During his days, he calls a few people he knows about possible jobs. He irons his T-shirts, and a friend stops by once in a while to slip him some cash and cigarettes. He makes a little extra money doing tattoos.

One visitor — Nicole Christos, a woman he dated 15 years ago — is a welcome surprise. Christos, an upbeat, fast-talking 34-year-old, has struggled with her own issues. She, too, has been arrested, the last time in 2001 for forgery and drug possession.

Their relationship didn't work years ago, Christos says, because Vescio went back to prison and she was young and "busy getting high" on methamphetamine.

Thomas Vescio fills his box with what he can at a food bank in Commerce City. There is much he leaves behind because he has nowhere to keep anything cold or to cook with. (Joe Amon, The Denver Post)

She has since received a degree in social sciences, and now she thinks she and Vescio can be successful.

"He's doing good. He can do this," says the mother of two.

She repeatedly reminds Vescio to check in with parole, and she picks him up after his meetings. Though unemployed, she brings him burritos and cigarettes.

When she relapses on meth in July, Vescio convinces her to go to detox for three days.

"If he didn't give me that push, I don't know if I would've gone," says Christos.

It has been three weeks since Vescio was paroled — and he can't stand still. Shifting his weight back and forth, he repeatedly repositions his baseball cap and takes drags off his cigarette.

He hasn't found a steady job. His medication runs out in a week — the state gives parolees a month's supply — but his biggest concern is that his motel voucher is up in five days. His room costs $45 a night.

"If I get kicked out of here, they might as well just put the cuffs on and put me back," he says.

He enters the parole office lobby 15 minutes later. There, about 20 men and women are clad in everything from dress pants and pinstripe button-downs to jean shorts and T-shirts.

Renee Ward, his parole officer, is not pleased he's late.

"This is your third time," she says. Her records show he has missed two drug tests and a drug and alcohol meeting.

Vescio takes a gulp from his water bottle.

"I would prefer you not eat or drink while we're having a meeting," she says.

Vescio tells Ward he has been trying to get a job at a roofing company. He doesn't want to work at a fast-food place because he doesn't "deal with people really great."

"You've got to be willing to accept any job," Ward says. "You're supposed to have a job by now."

Vescio says he tried to submit online applications for jobs at a library, but "I don't even know how to log onto a computer."

Ward says there are classes available to help him.

"If we are giving you the information and you're not following through, there's not much I can do," she says, adding that she will try to get him another motel voucher. "If not, you will have to go to a shelter."

"I'm not going to a shelter. There are junkies everywhere. People steal your stuff," he said. "I don't know. Maybe it's easier to be locked up."

Vescio panhandled in the motel parking lot for money to catch the bus to the parole office the next week. About 15 minutes late, he is wound up, pacing back and forth. He knows he missed a drug and alcohol re-entry meeting last week. And another drug test.

"I don't have any money (to get to the test). What am I supposed to do, fly there?" he asks. Above his lip is a scabbed-over, circular red mark. There are other small, itchy red dots on the left side of his face.

He wonders aloud whether he should use his last two dollars for food or a drug test.

His parole meeting is tense and heated.

"I'm really overwhelmed," he tells Ward. "I have nothing. Nothing."

"I give you directives every single week, Mr. Vescio, and every single week you don't do them," she says. "You continue to have violation after violation after violation."

Ward reminds him that he received a fifth week of motel vouchers, when most people get only two. And she tells him that if he'd go to his re-entry meetings, he would get bus passes.

"I'm trying to help you, but I can't work harder than you," she says. "If there are any more violations this week, chances are you are going to jail next week."

"I know you are trying to help me," Vescio says. "It's my fault. I burned all my bridges. I don't have people I can call."

"Other people in the same situation are making it work," she says, adding that he must take a drug test that day.

NO HOME. Commerce City police and parole officers arrive at Triangle T Motel to search a room across the parking lot from Thomas Vescio's. (Joe Amon | The Denver Post)

He doesn't. Instead, Vescio and Christos return to his motel, deciding to deal with it later. Less than two hours later, the motel manager kicks him out.

He moves his things into Christos' house, but his parole officer tells him on the phone he can't stay with Christos: She hasn't been approved by the parole office. He needs to go to a homeless shelter in Denver, Ward says, and come in for a meeting in two days.

Vescio doesn't go to the shelter. When he called there, he says, he was told it was full.

A half-hour before his parole meeting, Christos walks Vescio into the North Suburban Medical Center in Thornton.

The bumps on his face from three days ago have grown into oozing, nickel-sized boils. Christos' face is also erupting. The physician assistant tells him that he and Christos probably have methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, or MRSA, a bacterial infection that can be resistant to standard antibiotics and is often contracted in crowded living conditions.

Vescio is agitated. He doesn't know how he can afford the $15 medication. Christos' 9-year-old daughter hugs him and calls him Daddy.

A few minutes later, Vescio calls Ward from a hospital phone.

"I know I was supposed to go to a homeless shelter, Ms. Ward, but by the time the situation happened, it was too late," he says. "They said there wasn't any room unless you're there by 5."

Ward talks to a nurse, then Vescio gets back on the phone.

"I know , but ... ," he is cut off when she hangs up on him.

His head drops. Ward told him he must go to the homeless shelter that night. And meet her Monday morning.

He walks out to Christos' car and turns on loud music.

"I ain't ever going to make it," he says.

REVOCATION. Thomas Vescio, 35, waits with Nikki Christos, 34, and her 5-year-old daughter before his visit with his parole officer August 19 at the Colorado Northeast Parole Office. They are both sure Thomas will be arrested and taken back to jail for parole violations. (Joe Amon | The Denver Post)

That night, Vescio again doesn't go to the homeless shelter.
When the office checks his ankle monitor at 11 a.m. the next day, it shows Vescio is still at Christos' house. A warrant is issued for his arrest.

For the next three days, Christos and Vescio rarely leave the Thornton apartment. They take their medication, which Christos bought after borrowing money from her stepfather.

"He doesn't think I will wait if he goes back to jail," she says. Christos says she will stick by him. But she also needs to focus on staying clean and taking care of her kids.

"When we're together," she says, "we are both focused on the other one's problems."

For the first time since he got out six weeks ago, Vescio is early for his parole meeting.

He says he's now willing to go to the shelter.

"If they let me, I will. But I know they're going to put the cuffs on," he says. "But I wasn't going to run."

Vescio, Christos and her 5-year-old daughter sit outside the parole office, waiting for his name to be called. The three drink Dr. Pepper and try to dislodge a pack of Skittles from the vending machine.

Preparing for the worst, Vescio takes a lighter, lip balm and a black calendar book out of his pockets and hands them to Christos. She has someone take a photo of the two with their arms around each other.

After an hour, Ward summons Vescio in.

"Love you," Christos calls after him. Then he is arrested.

Christos visits him at Denver's Van Cise-Simonet Detention Center each of the next three days. Vescio looks pale and tired on the video screen.

"She said she gave me a direct order to go to the shelter and I didn't go," he says, referring to his parole officer. "And then she just talked a bunch of other (stuff)."

Later that afternoon, Vescio is transferred to a jail in Washington County. He must be released by Nov. 24, when his parole expires.

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About this series

A team of Denver Post reporters began investigating Colorado's system of monitoring parolees after the shooting death in March of state corrections chief Tom Clements, allegedly by a parolee.

Through open-records requests, The Post identified and researched 33 cases since 2002 in which parolees in Colorado committed or are accused of murder. The Post reviewed prison and parole documents for these cases and also obtained state audits, internal reports and jail booking data. Reporters interviewed corrections officials, parole officers, parolees, experts and families of victims.

Here's a look at each day's story:

Day 1: Lax supervision over Colorado parolees has had deadly consequences. Thirty-three parolees were convicted or charged with 38 murders in the last decade - in some cases only weeks after being released from prison.

Day 2: The state's prison system is struggling to find a solution to prisoners released directly from their solitary cells to the streets. Half of the parolees who murdered spent time in solitary confinement.

Day 3: In jail and on parole, offenders often don't receive treatment for substance abuse or mental illness or participate in programs to help them adjust to life on the outside.

Day 4: As Colorado tries to lower one of the highest return-to-prison rates in the nation, parole officers are stuck in a tug-of-war that pits second chances against swift punishment.